The Poet’s Task
I was waiting there on his sandy street
And then I saw the CHRYSLER jeep
And when I saw the Iraqi peep
I looked with shame upon my feet
CHAMPION socks and NIKE trainers
(endorsed by them the ENTERTAINERS)
“Good Morning Sir, Can I trouble you?”
(For an out-of-my-depth poet’s interview)
“Why?” he said, “The Gulf War has ended!”
“I am sorry sir, peace has been suspended.”
“Then grab your pen and use it well,
For an unfortunate story I will retell”
And as his eyes grew progressively darker
I tried. I tried to use my PARKER
Pen. To bolt words onto a page
(the wisdom borrowed from another age)
I looked upon his flame – tarnished face
To see the cost of a triumphant race
Upon the shoulders of a civilian man
The blood. The trauma. The Sand
He opened his mouth and asked, “What’s it for?”
(For Saddam breaking international law)
(For Americans breaking international law)
And when he realised that I could not speak
He spat upon my homogenised feet
“How many times will I meet a stranger like you?”
Trying to end a war with an interview
Mixing metaphors with those sloppy rhymes
When only the signifier is the sign
“You can’t transcribe so go and invent
Sound – Sight – Taste – Touch – Indeed the scent”
With that I turned and stole my leave
If only for a moments reprieve
NO, This is something I must do
To show people truth beyond blue
To give a victim a brand new face
To challenge and question the human race
I finished writing all of this dread
And that was what I should have said.
By Ian Thomas